Let's see where this goes
by detcidda
Summary: It's been a long day and now Kensi is tired and Deeks is worried. #densi proposal fic challenge
**I started writing this months ago but never thought I'd actually finish it, let alone have the guts to publish it. Figured this one-shot fit the tumblr #densiproposalficchallenge so here goes nothing.**

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There's an overwhelming sense of fatigue weighing her down. Even with her gaze turned outside the window, she can feel his eyes flick over to her every few seconds, the unspoken worry radiating off him in waves that echo loudly in the silent interior of the Audi. She'd wordlessly slipped her car keys into his hand as they finally trailed out of OSP earlier, after an entirely fruitless day wasted on chasing ghosts and turning up dead ends, landing them two steps back from where they had started at the beginning of the case.

Her voluntary relinquishment of the driver's seat had left him quirking his eyebrows in a mixture of incredulity and concern, but she'd just shrugged wordlessly in response as she slid into the passenger seat, curling her legs up to rest below her. Laying her cheek against the cool glass, she exhales in muffled sighs, her breath leaving foggy imprints on the window. Outside, the scenery blurs together in a seamless streak of colour as the SUV peels out of the unassuming Spanish mansion and merges into the swell of LA evening traffic.

His arm had snaked across the radio to switch the channel to her favourite techno station (which he half-jokingly swears has a total listening audience of one), but she'd given a tiny shake of her head, which only made the anxious furrow in his brow deepen further. He'd moved to speak a couple of times, but ended up swallowing the words on the tip of his tongue each time. If it were any other day, she'd be laughing in that god-awful cackle of hers, teasing him about trying to use his blonde mop as an excuse to mimic a gaping goldfish. If he's learned anything about her, though, is that sometimes it's best to just let her stew for a while, get a grip on the tumult of emotion flooding her system, before attempting to pry any answers from her. Regardless, he can't help his eyes darting over to her with increasing frequency and growing concern. This quiet, subdued version of her is so unlike the strong, tough-as-nails exterior usually displayed to the rest of the world; he's in awe of the fact that she now so willingly sheds her emotional armour around him, but the unnerving silence and defeated curve of her spine have caused deep worry lines to ingrain themselves on his forehead.

He almost makes the right turn that would lead them to the beach and her favourite taco stand, but cancels the signal at the last minute, pulling instead into his (no, _their_ ) driveway a short while later. With the ignition turned off, the sudden lack of noise in the car is practically begging him to say something, anything. But before he can open his mouth, she already has her bag hitched over one shoulder and is halfway out the passenger door. There's a brief pause as he sits and watches her slowly make her way towards the house, weariness evident in the drag of her feet. He scrambles to unbuckle his seatbelt before vaulting out the door, jogging up to meet her before slipping his hand into hers. A muffled curse under his breath as he fumbles awkwardly, scrambling to extract the keys from his pocket and unlock the front door single-handedly. To his vast relief, his not so smooth moves manage to elicit the briefest upturn of his partner's lips, which he considers a win, albeit a tiny one. He'll take what he can get. The door finally swings open and they step over the threshold, simultaneously dumping their bags on the floor.

It's cooler inside, and the muted light streaming through the windows shrouds the house in dim shadow. Their fingers are still loosely woven together, but as the sound of padded footsteps grows louder, she slides her hand from his grip before stooping down to ruffle the mutt's shaggy fur. He can't help the smile that tugs on his lips; as much as she complains about his toilet incompetence and radio preferences, she loves his dog-patchy fur and musky smell included.

He heads up the staircase and towards the bathroom with the enormous clawfoot bathtub he'd splurged on with days like this in mind. As the water runs, he rummages around for the bath salts he knows she has stashed away somewhere. She'd never admit it to something as girly as this, but she places Lush, with its overpriced but heavenly smelling soap, on par with Messrs Reese and Cadbury. He finally spies the innocuous brown paper bag hidden behind some of her motivational face soap and snags it, turning it over in his hands to check if words of wisdom are a prerequisite in his girlfriend's shower supplies. After sprinkling a liberal amount of the crystals into the water, he switches off the tap and sticks his pinkie in, wincing at the scalding temperature he deems masochistic but below which she dismisses as tepid. Grabbing the latest issue of Cosmo she picked up a few days ago but hasn't had the chance to flip through yet, he places it at the next to the tub before heading back downstairs, shutting the door firmly behind him so the warm steam won't have a chance to escape.

He finds her sprawled across the couch, remote dangling carelessly from the hand flung over an armrest. Although the TV is turned to Top Model reruns, he can tell by the glazed look in her eyes that she's not really paying attention to anything Tyra's saying. The soft smile she gives him as he bumps his knee against her head and gestures upstairs makes his heart swell because _look how far they've come_. If you'd told him a couple of years ago that she'd be on his couch and sharing a house, pretty much sharing a _life_ with him-he would have thought you were barking mad.

It's a spur of the moment decision and his timing is completely random, but looking at her he knows there isn't a trace of uncertainty in him. She said she wanted the whole beach-at-sunset shebang, but he can't picture them doing anything quite as cliche as that. Holding a finger out as if telling her to wait for him (but really, he knows she's not going anywhere, now or ever), he sprints up the stairs and digs around the closet with all their cleaning supplies for the small velvet box he had stashed away a few days ago. Grasping it tightly in his hand, he takes a deep breath and goes back down, making his way over to her once again.

Her head is peeping over the top of the couch, a slightly quizzical look in her eyes as he walks towards her. The corners of his eyes are crinkled like he's trying to hide a smile and then suddenly her heart is going wild because he's dropped down on one knee right in front of her and there's a box with a ring and she can barely process that this is actually happening and then she finds herself nodding and her cheeks feel suspiciously wet and he's sliding the band on her finger with the goofiest grin pasted on his face and just.

She went all in and it was the best gamble of her life.


End file.
